Supply Lines
by S J Smith-Evil Little Dog
Summary: <html><head></head>It's Maes' first time in the Eastern Desert.</html>


**Title:** Supply Lines

**Author: **Evil_Little_Dog

**Rating:** K+

**Disclaimer:** This is a derivative work, and, as such, I make absolutely no money writing this. Darn the luck.

**Summary: **Maes arrives in the Eastern Desert.

**Notes: **Written for the LJ Community, FMA-Fic-Contest.

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><p>How they were expected to wear wool in the desert was something Maes didn't want to think about. Forget about wearing dark blue to make themselves stand out like plums on a kitchen counter. The Ishvalans had it right – light colored fabrics in breathable cotton – forgive him for knowing his fabrics when he saw them – with shawls to go over their heads during the worst part of the day.<p>

His first day venturing East, and already there was a problem. Not just with the heat, but the truck tires – these big vehicles and sand were not things that went together well. Marv, who'd been a mechanic back home, said something about needing balloon tires to travel through the sand to distribute the weight. Their sergeant looked at all of them and laughed, a short, dry sound to accompany the unending yellow sand, told them to take everything not absolutely necessary off the truck and bury it in the dune for pick up later.

"You ladies might have to walk," he said.

But the war had been going on for four years already, Maes thought, surely there was a get across the desert by road?

"Ol' red eyes," the sergeant spat his disgust, "they mine our roads. We can't take the same way twice or risk all the men and supplies getting blown up."

"That's crazy," Marv blurted out.

"Crazy like a fox," the sergeant snapped. "If they cut off our supplies, we're dead, and they know it. They'll win this war."

Maes kept his mouth shut, though he half-wanted to ask if the Ishvalans did, would everyone else be allowed to go home? Those were traitorous words, and he wasn't about to leave his parents with the stigma of a child shot for being a traitor. Picking up a shovel, he began digging with a couple of other men around the base of a dune. "You idiots!" the sergeant bellowed, "not there! You'll start an avalanche!"

Some hours later, when the sand was smoothed down, coordinates taken, and a marker in the form of an old wizened stick placed, they climbed back into the truck to start back on their journey. Maes softly at the sunburn on the back of his neck, and the way the wool collar chafed it. Marv whistled, drumming a cadence with his fingers on his knee.

"What're you so happy about?"

Marv grinned at Maes' sour question. "Way I figure it, we only have to make the trip out here once. We get there, show the Ishvalans what's what, and high tail it back home to the dames, the booze, and the real world."

"Either that or get killed and go home in a coffin," Ben said.

"Cut that talk, Bargar," the sergeant snapped.

"Yes, sir!" Ben said, but rolled his eyes when the sergeant wasn't looking.

By the time they reached the 22nd unit, the entire back of the truck stank like damp wool and armpit. Maes didn't know which was worse. He hadn't been one of the men to throw up because of the heat, but it'd been close a couple of times. The sergeant managed to look cool and collected, despite the sweat darkening the rim of his hat. "Some of you boys are staying here, the rest of you are going on with me," he said.

"Sergeant!" a lieutenant waved. "Where's your truck headed?"

"Deeper in, Lieutenant. Going to the war."

The woman grimaced. "All right. Carry on." She waved at the truck, muttering to herself. Maes caught something about "warm bodies to swap out for cold," and shuddered.

The sergeant hesitated before climbing back into the truck, speaking to the men still clustered around. "You'd better get the jitters out quick. Longer you keep 'em, faster you'll be dead." With that cheery salutation, he hauled himself into the bed of the truck, and it drove off, the wheels throwing up dust and grit. Marv coughed, but slapped Maes on the back. "Pretty soon, we'll be riding that truck back home, Hughes."

Averting his eyes from a tent marked 'Morgue', Maes promised himself his journey back home would be a celebration, not a funeral march.

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><p><em>~ end ~<em>


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